Fashionably dysfunctional

Recently my wife threatened to throw away all my clothes. Given the tone with which she made the statement, not only could I tell she was serious, but I also sensed that it might not matter whether or not I happened to be wearing said clothes when she decides to commence throwing.

I was surprised, for generally my wife has rather low expectations about my clothing. She certainly did not marry me for my fashion sense. She knew going in that I’m a guy who wears matching socks about as often as I win the lottery and who gets completely incapacitated when contemplating the subtle complexities of plaid.

Nonetheless, I’m fully aware of my fashion dysfunction and, for the most part, I do what I can to avoid leaving the house dressed like an idiot. My wardrobe focuses around strategic use of a principle called “keep it simple, stupid.”

I follow one fashion rule: Never wear the same colour on top as you wear on the bottom. That way I don’t accidentally go outside dressed all in brown like a UPS driver, dressed all in black like a Johnny Cash impersonator, or dressed all in green like an oversized leprechaun.

Still, from a style perspective, I’ll admit my clothes might be a bit boring. Apparently fads have changed in the two dozen or so years since I’ve bought a new t-shirt, so unfortunately for me, this means that at some point I’m going to be taken shopping.

I loathe shopping, especially at those name-brand retail outlets where all the 22-year-old clerks have frosted-tipped haircuts, wear suits nicer than the tux I wore at my wedding, and have taken extensive professional development in the fine art of snobbery and disdain. When someone like me browses in wearing my simple mono coloured t-shirt and no-name jeans, the clerks act polite to my face, but somehow I know that they are secretly recording my movements via closed circuit TV cameras to see which clothes I touch so they can burn them later as a precaution against cooties.

These stores are always filled with glossy pictures of handsome male models standing amidst mahogany-infested arrays of croquet mallets, leather saddles, and rupturing stock portfolios. Even the mannequins have sneers, as if they have all just received the tragic news that their favourite polo pony just trampled two of the manservants and might now be unavailable for an important upcoming tournament.

And then there’s the cost. I was recently at an outlet store – I won’t say the name, but it might rhyme with Malph Glauren – where a single t-shirt cost $77.50. Yes, you read that correctly. I said seventy-seven dollars and fifty cents. I once bought an entire suit for that price. Granted, the suit was made of a scratchy, wrinkle-attracting material that I think they normally use to make tarps for patio barbeques, but the whole suit cost nearly the same as one stupid t-shirt.

But hey, I’m not here to judge. Companies only charge what consumers will pay, and there are plenty of people out there (a.k.a. my teenage daughters) who pay ridiculous dollars for designer jeans that are ripped to shreds before they even leave the store.

When it comes to my clothing, however, I’m a bit more picky. When my wife drags me shopping next, I’m hoping she chooses one of those upscale department stores where I’m most comfortable, such as Le Mart du Wal.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.